Driving the Saudis Page 19

  I had seen the lockbox in my first week on the job. At the end of each night, after our client released us, every driver had to check out with Alpha One Command Post on the twelfth floor to get cleared for the evening. Very late one night, I went upstairs in the elevator to the security room to receive permission to go home. I made a point of looking down and studying the marble rosette floor to avoid seeing my reflection in the mirrored four walls of the lift’s compartment. It was only day 5 of the job, but I knew I was already looking haggard and I didn’t want to scare myself.

  Bill, an unsmiling ashen-faced twenty-five-year-old, was on duty. He always dressed in the poly/cotton short-sleeve white shirts and khaki pants that were standard security personnel attire, and had a “high and tight” buzz cut that never varied. He was standing in the middle of the room with two remote controls in his hands, staring at the multicamera monitors stacked on one of the long tables along the wall.

  I knocked on the open door knowing that he had already seen me walking up the corridor on the monitor. “Hey, Bill. I’m clear for the night, okay?” I asked.

  “Yeah. You’re the last driver in again; that’s three nights in a row. Better get used to these late nights; looks like it’s your luck of the draw. Welcome to Riyadh,” he said as he switched channels on the monitors with one of the remotes. I could see that there were camera views of several floors of the hotel, the bank of elevators, and various angles of the hotel entrances and underground parking garage.

  I looked around the room. “You’re on your own here?” Usually there were several security personnel working the computers or covering the phones.

  “Yep, solo duty at night. That’s all that’s needed once the principals are in beddy-bye mode. I’m planning on it being nice and quiet, just the way I like it,” he said. There were stacks of papers in front of him that he started sifting through to compile the daily command post reports. His eyes were puffy and swollen. He wheezed when he took a breath, and then exhaled slowly as if bracing himself for the long night ahead of him.

  “I need a favor,” I told him. “I can’t remember anybody’s name—the servants especially, and the cousins—and I’m driving a lot of different people. I never know how to address half of them, just to be polite. Is there a room list or something so I can get a visual?”

  He opened up a small safe in the corner of the room and took out a silver Halliburton briefcase. He fiddled with it for a moment and then opened the lid. The case was filled with passports. As he rifled through them he said, “Yeah, here you go. These are just English transliterations, so don’t worry about the spelling because it’s always different. That’s the Brits for you, Anglo-phying everything they can get their hands on. So here’s Maysam, you’re driving her, right? M-A-Y-S-A-M. Maysam. Here’s another, F-A-H-I-M-A. Fahima. And Zuhur. Z-U-H-U-R. Okay, you covered? I’ve got stuff to do.” He wiped his hand across his brow, closed the case, and put it back in the safe.

  I stood there for a while. When Bill noticed I was still just standing there, he said, “You’re cleared. Good night. You look like you need some sleep.”

  “Oh, oh, yeah, thanks,” I said and walked out.

  I had read that in the Kingdom, Saudi employers often kept the passports of their household employees, but I was shocked that this happened even here in the United States. And it wasn’t the Saudis keeping the passports; it was the guys on the twelfth floor. A hired security team of mostly American retired cops, former marines, and other ex-military who had defended what America’s founding fathers deemed inalienable rights (rights that challenged the “divine right of kings”): these same men complied with the feudal customs of the Saudi royal family who were paying them to lock up the passports of the household staff as if the Saudis owned the lot of them, as if they were chattel.

  Royalty can mean whatever we want to imbue it with, whether it’s English royalty, Washington insider royalty, Wall Street power broker royalty, Saudi royalty, or the Hollywood elite royalty, but ultimately it’s about money and power, and our willingness to kowtow to it to gain access or to be rewarded. The “divine right of kings” was invented by ambitious men to justify power-mongering, oppression, and classism.

  I was stunned when I saw the lockbox, but I was so tired that I convinced myself that maybe I had imagined it, and said to myself that perhaps it wasn’t what I thought it was. Maybe it was just easier for security to keep everyone’s passport for traveling purposes? But I knew that a passport isn’t required to check in at an American hotel, especially when someone else is paying. I didn’t say anything to anybody about what I’d seen and had even pushed it out of my head. It was easier not to think about it.

  When I first saw the passports, I was just a distant observer, curious and somewhat disturbed by it, but still removed. Now that I knew Zeinab, Malikah, Maysam, and the other women working for the family and had grown to care for them, it was different. I was dismayed by the thought that they might be working against their wills or perhaps coerced by circumstances into taking jobs that offered them no hope of ever fulfilling any of their dreams.

  I looked at Zeinab standing before me, shaking and struggling to tell me what was bothering her. I could see that she trusted me and relied on me; I was her friend. Zeinab was ashamed that she had lied to the man at the embassy, and as she spoke to me, I also felt shame. I struggled with the bitter truth that I had said nothing when I saw that lockbox; in fact, I had done nothing to act against what I knew was grievous wrongdoing. I struggle with this still today, and I am ashamed by my lack of action, then and even now. I’m not sure what I could have done exactly, but I know I kept my mouth shut because I was thinking about the money that I was making, and would make at the end of the job, and I didn’t want to compromise that.

  I didn’t go to the California Labor Board, or the Immigration and Naturalization Service, or the Internal Revenue Service and tell them that the family was breaking the law by making everyone work night and day, nor did I report that many of the drivers were illegal immigrants, or that payment was in cash with no paperwork.

  I kept my mouth shut—I was willing to work under those conditions for the money—and the security team was doing the same. We were all mercenaries.

  I took the job knowing it was going to be arduous but with the promise that I might make a lot of cash; I was counting on that cash. I justified it as a means to an end and it was my choice. But the family’s servants probably had no choice, they weren’t free to leave when they wished. Most of them were most likely not free to change jobs, and couldn’t even go back to their own homelands without the Saudis’ permission.

  Many of the other drivers, undocumented workers here in Los Angeles with no papers, were pulling fourteen-hour days with no overtime because they also had no choice; they had families to feed and couldn’t complain to anyone. There’s no recourse when you’re illegal and afraid of being deported. And they had no advocate.

  I can still hear Charles saying to me over and over again: “Take the money and run, girl, you gots to learn to take the money and run,” and that’s exactly what I had done. I had fully bought in and I was fully bought.

  At the beginning of the seven weeks, I was awed by the immense wealth, power, and influence of the family and was perhaps even awestruck by their designation as “royal.” But I know now that “royal” is no more than an ancestral designation inherited by the Saudi royal family because their distant progenitor conquered or killed neighboring tribes, annexed their women and lands, and thus proclaimed himself “royal,” just as all other “royals” have done in some version or another throughout centuries.

  I am left with a feeling of deep gratitude for the freedoms of this country—freedoms that I, and I am sure most of us, take so very much for granted. But I fear that I have contributed to the erosion of those freedoms through my complicity.

  21

  You Can Never Really Know a Person

  One afternoon, I was in the servants’ hotel room as I wai
ted for Maysam and the other girls to ready themselves for an afternoon outing. It was a pleasure to be in their company; they always made sure I was at ease and contented. Even though I worked for them, in a way, they made me feel as if I were tended to by a cluster of doting little sisters. They made tea for me, shared their Saudi chocolate candy bars and English digestive biscuits, and propped pillows up around me in an armchair so that I felt as if I was floating on a floral chintz–covered miniature throne.

  They’d been cooped up for a few days, so this afternoon they were particularly jazzed because they were finally going out. They always got gussied up to leave the hotel even though I was only taking them for a ten-minute drive to the 99¢ Only store and then back again. The room was crowded with several ironing boards where they were busy freshly pressing their matching tunics and pants, and selecting which hijabs they wished to wear with their preferred outfit. They laid out the different combinations on the bed to compare each ensemble and conferred in Arabic as they swapped out various pieces to arrive at the most appealing selection. It reminded me of when I was a teenager and my friends and I would convene for hours in one girl’s bedroom to get ready before a weekend party; we’d mix and match what each of us had contributed so that invariably we’d end up with a better outfit than the one we had brought.

  Even inside the hotel room, the girls always wore hijabs. I had never seen any of them without a head cover, but the ones they wore daily were usually plain, pale blue, white, or beige in color and were somewhat uniform-like. For their afternoons on the town, the girls donned surprisingly colorful multilayered hijabs made of silk that were edged with embroidery, lace, or intricate beading.

  The television was on, and every now and then, the girls would stop what they were doing, fix on the screen for a moment, and then explode into fits of laughter at what they saw, running around the room holding their sides as they roared with delight. They were watching a program that aired home videos of funny accidents—a snowboarder ran into a ski lift and took out a whole line of skiers like dominoes; a laughing baby spat food across the room, coating the camera lens and camera operator in mashed peas; a dog farted in his sleep and woke himself up, barking ferociously as if he’d heard an intruder in the house. They clucked with disappointment when it was over. They also loved the Spanish soap operas; they would turn the sound down and watch them with great attention, nodding sympathetically, understanding all the goings-on by the gestures and facial expressions of the actors.

  The hotel’s cable had special international channels that I had never seen before, many of them in Arabic, including Al Jazeera, Al-Arabiya, and MTV-Arabic. I started flipping around the news channels and watching coverage that was on all of them about recent incidents in Israel and the settlement building in the West Bank, with disturbing video that showed the troubles on both sides and the escalating violence of the conflict. I was interested in knowing the girls’ views on what was happening in the Middle East, and by this time I felt I knew them well enough to ask that kind of question point-blank, but the communication was still somewhat challenging.

  “Allah is great, Janni,” said Maysam. “Praise be to Allah. Allah knows all.”

  “Yes, Maysam,” I said. “But what do you think about what’s going on over there?”

  The room went quiet. Maysam didn’t say anything, and none of the other girls spoke up either. This was strange because they usually had a lot of opinions on most topics, even if I couldn’t quite comprehend all of what they said. We often had to go over the same material several times for me to better understand their unique perspectives, and sometimes even just to grasp what they were trying to say. Frequently we’d discuss something, and then I would ponder on what I thought it was that they were talking about or attempting to express, and then come back later with questions to put to them. One topic might continue in this way for several days, usually until we were both satisfied that we had reached a full understanding. This progressive round-robin of conversation became a regular and fruitful routine between us.

  “Allah is great, and all the Jews is evil and all should be killed,” Maysam said as she continued ironing the outfit that she had decided to wear for the day. Her long pants were a robin’s egg blue poplin, and even though they’d just been dry-cleaned by the hotel, she liked to press a fresh crease in the legs before she wore them out. Her long-sleeved tunic was cream colored, with a blue and white floral brocade appliqué on the sleeves, hem, and bodice that matched the pants perfectly. Her hijab was navy blue and cream with tiny scarlet flowers. She smiled at me and then continued her ironing. As always, she hummed softly as she worked.

  “I’m sorry?” I said, hoping with all my heart that I had misheard her.

  “Yes, Janni. It is problems for the Arab peoples that the Jews must leave this place. They take the land; they must not keep it. This they must not. This land, it is not theirs to take; they must not, and many peoples suffers because of this.”

  “You don’t think the Jews and Palestinians can figure out a way to live in peace together?” I asked.

  “All the Jews is evil, and all should be killed,” she said again. “Then there will be peace.” I felt a rush of white noise around my ears and a hard pit growing in my throat. I realized that you can never really know a person in spite of the fact that most of us think we can or hope that we do; and people often surprise you with another version of themselves when you least expect it.

  “I don’t understand. You mean, uh, what you’re saying is that they should all die? That’s what you’re saying? I don’t think that’s what you mean.”

  “Then there will be peace,” Maysam replied. She nodded her head several times to punctuate her conclusion.

  “I do not think that’s true, Maysam. I really do not agree with you,” I said, raising my voice a little too loudly. I looked around for help from the other girls, but they had all resumed their tasks and weren’t concerning themselves any further with our conversation, and it appeared Maysam was speaking for them all. Zuhur had chosen a tawny beige and gold ensemble made of damask cotton with a yellow and cream-colored polka-dotted hijab that complemented her coloring perfectly. Mouna was busy pressing two different outfits and was anxiously fretting over which was perfect for the day. The other girls were bustling in and out of the room, making sure that all their duties were taken care of before they left for their few hours off.

  “This is as it must be, Janni. The Jews is all evil,” Maysam said. She finished her ironing and placed her ensemble carefully on hangers. She liked to put them on at the very last moment just before we left so that they’d be as crisp as possible on the outing.

  “No, Maysam. All Jews are not evil and besides . . . look around you here in Beverly Hills. Many Jews live here, and others, Christians, Muslims; we all live together. I mean we live together happily. There’s no religious war here. The cell phone store where we get minutes to fill your phone, that’s owned by a Persian Jew and he’s a nice guy, right? You like him yourself, you said so. And remember when I took you to Westwood to get the pistachio and kataifi pastries that you like; many of those are Jewish shops. They like the same desserts as you. You eat the same food. No one here cares whether you’re a Jew or a Muslim; we all shop, eat, and live together.” I didn’t even know how to argue with her; I was at a complete and total loss. I just kept talking about shared interest in desserts as if that was going to make a difference to her thinking.

  “I am sorry for you, Janni, but Allah is great. Allah knows. When the Jews are dead all, then there will be peace in Middle East. This is Allah’s will. Insha’Allah.”

  The Quran specifically says that all people are created equal. Racism, sexism, and prejudice of any kind is abhorrent. And human life, all human life, Muslim or not, is sacred: “And whoever kills a soul . . . should be as though he has killed all humankind.” (Quran 5:32)

  Maysam was sixteen. She spoke to me so plainly, so calmly, so clearly, but it sounded rote, almost rehearsed.
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  I was at a wedding in the Southwest a few years ago when I overheard a young father talking to his ten-year-old son in the hotel where I was staying. As they walked past me in the lobby, the father leaned down as he spoke reassuringly to the boy, one arm wrapped protectively around him. “You need to forget about that goddamn faggot,” he said. “You hear me? That kid’s a faggot, so you just forget about him. He’s not your friend. He should be dead.” The boy looked up at his dad and said, “Yeah, he’s a faggot. He should be dead.” His voice was the same as Maysam’s—flat and resigned, unquestioning.

  Maysam and I round-robined on the Middle East issue a few times more. I kept on hoping that maybe if I could phrase things just right, somehow I might convince her that the obliteration of the Jewish people was not the only way to have peace in that troubled part of the world. But I never found the right words to get through to her, and it made me sad that I didn’t make any headway. Hearing those terrible words coming from her is still distressing to me. I was reminded of a story that a friend told me about when he had traveled after college to France and had fallen in love with a Parisian beauty. After a few weeks, as his French improved and he began to comprehend more than just beguiling phrases of love, he woke up one day to understand that the magnificent woman in his arms was a raging white supremacist. He was so enamored of her that he worked hard to forget this very important detail for as long as he could, or rather until his visa ran out; then he returned home heartbroken but determined to forget her.